Aperatif
by ClairefromAyr
Summary: Sherlock believes that Moriarty still lives after seeing the t.v interruptions from this year. What he can't figure out is how, but he will. He'll figure it out if it kills him - which it just might. Unsure of the ending as yet but the following warnings apply for the first few chapters: violence, near death, bromance, no slash (as yet), trauma, drug use.
1. Chapter 1

Just a little treat for Sherlock lovers. I am in the midst of writing quite heavy Vampire Diaries fics and so I thought I'd relax and have fun with this one – this is the only Sherlock fic I have ever written so I hope I don't disappoint. Gotta get me some Cumberbatch fix while we wait for the next Sherlock two years from now;-(

I own none of the characters in the writing – they belong to the immortal memory of Sir Arthur and a couple of Geeks at the BBC whom we all know and love.

Warnings for: Vampirelock, traumatic scenes, drug use etc.

APERATIF Chapter 1

"Come on John!" Sherlock yelled as he threw his body into the next alleyway ahead, his legs moving faster than the rest of him, prompting him falling over if he wasn't careful.

His heart pounded in his chest as he pushed his body to the limit. Two days with no food for his transport were taking their toll and for the first time in weeks he understood the need for the nutrition. John had said he should eat. John was always right. It was infuriating!

The criminal ahead jumped over a wire fence, separating the alley from a back courtyard and Sherlock huffed and pushed his body on, jumping onto the wire and clawing his way up it as he struggled to keep his other senses working. The sounds of his own panting breath, his heart beat pounding in his ears and the sounds of John struggling to keep up – John's footsteps falling further and further behind as he had sped on…

He jumped off of the fence and landed hard on his feet, feeling the impact – enough to make him fall forward and land on his hands. Damn, he was getting slower these days. Perhaps he should sleep a little more often.

He looked up towards where the assailant had run and huffed. He couldn't lose this one. This guy had been dealing for Moriarty – trading cash for favours. He'd been tracking him for months, knowing that Moriarty was playing with him and dangling this guy before him like a jewel on a string. Clearly this guy was a small time player in the game and Moriarty had planted him intentionally. Why – who knew why Moriarty did what he did? He enjoyed a game – generally with Sherlock himself at the centre and the awful truth of it was that Sherlock enjoyed it every bit as much as his nemesis did.

He grinned before launching himself of the ground in pursuit, not faltering for a moment, even as he heard John call out to him from miles behind. Too slow. Sometimes John could be so slow.

He rounded a corner and crashed into a body lying on the ground before him. He fell with a gasp of surprise and landed hard onto the concrete, crushing the air out of his lungs. What the hell?! He tried to take in a breath, even though he knew it was useless. He needed to ride out the shock to his lungs, as hard as it may be.

He squeezed his eyes closed, struggling to contain his desire to immediately spring to action and stand up.

"Joh…" he tried to wheeze but lowered his head as he tried to calm his tingling lungs.

He waited impatiently until he could slowly draw in a breath that reached his chest. He opened his eyes, scanning the alleyway. He was vulnerable here, laying on the ground, struggling to clear the cobwebs in his mind. He had to stand up and get a better look. John would no doubt be on his heels and reach him soon anyway.

He looked to the body he'd tripped over and reached out to move the fabric of the jacket away and get a better look at the man's face.

 _Clearly male, mid-thirties, ex-athlete but had developed an addition to performance enhancers and has been disqualified. Clear signs of continued drug use and muscle atrophy as a result. No wonder he'd struggled to keep up with him!_

He swept the hair away from the man's face and leaned closer to check for signs of breath, when he was thrown suddenly against the wall, his feet lifting entirely from the ground as the wall took the whole brunt of his weight. He didn't have time to yell or make any sounds really, the movements of his attacker were too quick, almost invisible.

His head was slammed to the side, turning his vision away from whoever was responsible and a cold hand, as solid as lead, held his throat there. He automatically gagged and grabbed at the invaders hand, trying to turn his head to see. The man was holding Sherlock's neck as though it were made of marshmallow and he could not move an inch.

His body kicked into defence mode and he tried to lash out and harm the spectre before him, but all the spectre did was tut at him, as though he were a child. He tried to cry out but a hand was forced against his mouth, his head to the side at such an angle as to bear his neck away from the high collar of his coat. He screamed him into the hand as he felt his throat being torn apart viscously. The sound of his cries barely reached the air as the agony of the violation built until he couldn't stand without help.

Blood spilled down the front of his famous coat and he heard sounds of an animal growling. The pain robbed him of his reason and he continued to fight and scream before the pain made him black out.

"Sherlock?" John's voice somewhere far away, muted almost.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

Sherlock grunted, fighting the urge to fall back asleep. Everything seemed murky and confusing. The more sounds and senses that began to creep back to life, the less he was sure of whether he should encourage it.

A warmth enfolded him and he felt his body lifted upwards.

 _Am I dying? Again?_

"Pupils are responsive, but the pulse is thready and quickening. I need an I.V!"

"Sherlock, hang on you bloody git!"

"What's his name?"

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, please…"

Sherlock felt his eyes rolling back into his head and he shivered. He felt sweaty and cold and muddled. What the hell was happening? His senses were so highly attuned that right now they were a nuisance. Beeping and smells of hospital surrounded him.

"Sherlock, they're giving you a transfusion ok? I'm going to be here the whole time. Open your eyes. Please god…open your eyes for me Sherlock."

John was so worried, desperate even. Why was he so concerned? Of course he was going to open his eyes eventually, when he felt the need to. Right now the confusion and mixture of stimuli were rather intriguing and he wouldn't mind staying in this place a little longer. He felt tired – more tired than he'd ever been while hunting Moriarty's network. He'd been driven by the thought of home, of being able to come back home someday and know that the people he loved were safe.

Why had he had to run again?

"Sherlock? No…" Poor simple, empathetic John, "I need a crash team in here stat! He's going into hypovolemic shock!"

Beepers going crazy, people's voices stressing and creating havoc in his neutral space. How irritating. He exhaled deeply, wanting all the noise to stop, when he felt a huge blow to his chest. He opened his eyes, gagging and another blow followed. He grabbed at the arms of his attacker, fearing his end when he saw John struggling against him. John breathed in relief and nodded to the other doctors present.

"Easy now!" John emphasised and lay him back down onto the bed. "Relax, you're going to be ok Sherlock."

He frowned, confused but nodded and closed his eyes again. The buzzing sound of life around him faded into grey.

He awoke some time later, with his throat burning from thirst. He groaned, frowning and felt a hand upon his jaw, coaxing his head upwards at a slight angle. He allowed himself to be moved in that direction and felt a straw push against his lips. He opened them and allowed entry, sucking at the straw and relaxing instantly when he tasted the fresh cool water slide into his mouth. He drank hungrily, until he heard John's voice placating him.

He opened his eyes and blinked some double vision away.

"Hi." John smiled, searching his face intently as only a doctor could.

"What happened?" He croaked before clearing his throat.

"We almost lost you is what happened." John sighed.

"No, with the case! Moriarty's man, did he..?"

"Jesus Christ. You nearly get your head ripped off and you're first thought is for the investigation?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock studied him.

 _Hasn't had a shower in 2 days. Slept in a chair. Had disgusting hospital grade food for lunch and has regurgitated it back into the world again since. Hair pulling, signs of stress, worry. Blood on his shirt sleeve – my blood. Not been home since my attack, so hasn't changed. Obviously._

"How do you feel?" John touched his hand gently.

"Fine."

"Fine?" John shook his head. "You're not fine. Some animal found you in that alley and decided you were dinner."

"Animal?" He frowned and John stood up and began to examine his neck.

Until now he hadn't become aware of the aching, throbbing sensation there. That was odd. Normally all of his senses performed highly. He reached up to touch his neck and John batted his hand away, peeling back the bandage which was evidently suckered to his throat.

"Jesus." John sighed. "Can you remember what happened?"

Sherlock winced in discomfort as some of the tape pinched at his wound and John carefully sealed it back over again, looking at his pupils and discretely taking his pulse.

"No." He said, checking his mind palace for memories but there were none.

"It's not unusual with a trauma like that. You went into shock because of the blood loss and your heart stopped."

"Hmmn." Sherlock grunted. "Inconvenient."

"Inconvenient?" John huffed again and crossed his arms, looking up at the ceiling and Sherlock smirked a little.

"How many times have I told you not to charge ahead without me into the unknown Sherlock? Christ you could have been killed this time. Lestrade was right behind us, it's too dangerous for you to be…"

"Did we catch him?" Sherlock interrupted.

"What?"

"Malcolmson. Did we catch him?"

John exhaled.

"Yeah, we got him alright."

"Excellent, I need to question him as soon as possible." Sherlock tried to sit up and some alarms went off beside him.

John pressed on his chest, forcing him back down onto the bed, while turning some knobs on the machines blaring next to him, to stop the noise. Sherlock cringed and covered his ears. His senses were so raw.

"You're not going anywhere Sherlock, not this time."

"John, don't be naïve. If Moriarty is still alive out there somewhere, then this man can help me track him down! We're wasting time!"

"Enough!" John said harshly and Sherlock looked to him in surprise at his tone. "You are going to listen to me for a change."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue when John continued.

"After what you put me through for two years thinking you were dead…"

"This again." Sherlock huffed and relaxed back into the pillow behind him.

"After making me watch you die! You may not value your life Sherlock, but for god's sake..!" he bellowed, startling Sherlock into attention once again. "You will consider _me_! I can't go through that again, do you understand?"

Sherlock stared at his friend for a long moment as John swallowed down tears and emotion. So emotional. John always felt so much. He really had to remember that. John looked down at his feet for a few seconds and then back at him, a little more collected.

"What you did the other night was reckless and stupid. You can't go running headlong into dangerous situations anymore to get your kicks."

"My kicks?"

"Yes your kicks." John said calmly. "If you had died, what would have happened to all of us you leave behind? There would be no coming back this time, not ever. I want you to consider that before you go chasing death again."

John looked down at his feet again and Sherlock exhaled and closed his eyes. John's emotions threatened his calm demeanour at times and right now he had to conserve his energy for healing so he could convince John he was well enough to resume the work. John sat down next to him, the legs of the chair scraping as he tried to push himself a little further away from the bed. Clearly he had been close enough to touch Sherlock's arm before and given the warmth of the edge of the mattress under his fingertips, John had been leaning over and holding his hand too.

"Has Lestrade gotten anything out of Malcolmson yet?" He dared to ask.

"No and I don't expect he will." John sighed and Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him. "He's dead."

"Dead?" Sherlock frowned in surprise and annoyance.

"He was lying dead next to where I found you. You don't remember anything at all?"

"Dead." Sherlock whispered to himself, his eyes moving side to side as his brain kicked into gear in rapid motion.

"It doesn't make sense that there should have been an animal big enough to maul you like that and not do the same to him, unless he had the animal waiting at his command." John sat back in his chair as he considered it all.

"How was he killed?"

"Broken neck."

"Impossible. I was barely 30 seconds behind him…I...I would have heard something."

John sat forward again.

"Is it coming back to you?"

"Something…something's not…" Sherlock frowned and seemed to weaken a little.

John placed his hand on his and patted it.

"Now's not the time to strain yourself. You need to rest and then you'll figure it out."

"Nonsense John, we both know that the most imperative time to capture details is immediately after an attack!" He huffed.

"Under normal circumstances, but you almost died Sherlock. When I found you, you were barely responsive. Give it time."

"We don't have time!" He exhaled and closed his eyes, feeling the pull of sleep once more.

John leaned over to one of the tubes connected to Sherlock's arm and adjusted the morphine. In normal circumstances he wouldn't want this particular chemical painkiller prescribed to his addict friend, but his body needed the rest. He twisted it a little, upping the dosage and Sherlock's breathing became a regular pattern once more. Once his blood pressure and vitals looked better they'd deal with figuring out what had happened in the alleyway and not a minute sooner.


	2. Chapter 2

Aperatif Chaper 2

It had taken a few days before the hospital had begrudgingly released Sherlock and only with the instruction that John continue to dress his neck wounds and administer pain medication. John, as always had fallen into his role and agreed, despite his better judgement. He knew however, that keeping a man like his best friend, in a hospital when there was a case to be solved, was a feat of unimaginable difficulty.

Sherlock had refused point blank to stay in bed to rest, throwing one of his renowned tantrums at the very suggestion, but John had at least managed to talk him into remaining on the couch and eating at regular intervals before pain meds were taken.

He sat a cup of tea down beside him and searched his face. Sherlock had been in his mind palace for an hour now. He still looked so pale. He always looked pale but the blood loss had really taken it out of him. He'd caught the look of pain and weakness in his expression a few times as he had been throwing his tantrum earlier. He'd tried to hide it, but it was apparent. More so was the apparentness of his deep seated discomfort in the loss of his memory of the events of the fateful evening. Sherlock had always been able to rely on his memory, his recall abilities, but still after a few days – he had no recollection of what had happened after he had ran out of John's sight.

"Sherlock?" John gently nudged him, hating to interrupt his mind palace searching, but aware that his wound needed to be cleaned and re-dressed.

Sherlock was oblivious to his presence that much was sure. He exhaled and spoke his name again, a little louder. Still nothing. He huffed and reached out to touch Sherlock's neck, noticing some sweat dampening the curls at the base of his head. He frowned. Was he running a temperature? That would be very not good. He traced his fingers gently around the edges of the dressing to check if the dressing was also moist and hot, when Sherlock opened his eyes frighteningly wide and grabbed his hand in a vice-like grip.

"It's just me!" He grunted, as Sherlock stared at him and squeezed his wrist painfully.

"Sherlock." He said worriedly, noticing the dilation of Sherlock's pupils – his normally green flecked irises were pushed to the boundaries by the black holes taking in sensory data.

Sherlock blinked after a second, his pupils narrowing and taking in John's appearance and he released his wrist.

"Mmn sorry." He mumbled and blinked again and John placed his hand over his forehead.

"You're burning up. Come on." John said and urged him into a sitting position.

Sherlock grunted and blinked.

"We need to get you a little cooler ok and I need to check your neck."

"I'm fine John!" He said annoyed but he almost slurred the words and looked up at John confused.

"You here that? You can't even talk properly. We had a deal remember? If you don't follow the rules, then I'll take you back to the hospital."

Sherlock grimaced and nodded, leaning on him to stand up. They walked to the bathroom and Sherlock sat down on the toilet as John ran a cloth under cold water and handed it to him. Sherlock placed it over his head, sighing theatrically, but closed his eyes in relief at the coolness. He let his mind drift gently, almost peacefully as the sounds of John tinkering around and opening medicine tubs soothed him.

He jolted in surprise when he felt John touch his neck again.

"Sorry. Pain?" John winced as he pealed the dressing back to take a look.

"It's manageable." He mumbled.

"I think we need to use the stronger anti-biotics." John sighed in disappointment as he examined the stitches.

He shook his head and began to gently cleanse the area, noting how tense Sherlock held his body as he worked with his sanitised cotton bud.

"Nearly over." He whispered encouragingly.

"I want you to photograph it." Sherlock mumbled.

"What?" John soaked a new cotton bud and discarded the old in the sink.

"The wound. I need to see it properly. Need to figure out what kind of animal it was."

"A dog I'd say."

"How wide a circumference of the jaw?" Sherlock asked and John exhaled through his nose. "How many teeth puncture wounds?"

John shook his head and Sherlock began to tap his foot impatiently, or was it in response to pain and he was channelling the energy elsewhere? That was more likely.

"I'll take a photograph for you." He said to placate him.

Sherlock nodded in response.

"I must have been examining Malcolmson as he lay on the ground when the animal came at me."

"That would make sense, with the height and the location of the wound." John agreed.

Sherlock made a grunt of pain and John finished up the cleansing. The wound looked a little red still and Sherlock was hot, but he was talking and making sense. Perhaps his temperature was only slightly elevated. He stood back up and opened a new dressing. Sherlock stared straight ahead as he carefully sealed it back over the wound.

He threw the soiled cotton buds in the trash and washed him hands thoroughly, before turning to Sherlock and giving him a thermometer.

"I'm fine." Sherlock ignored the hand holding the thermometer out to him.

"What did we just talk about?" John warned and Sherlock rolled his eyes at him, but took the device and stuck it into his mouth scowling.

"If you feel any hotter or ill, you have to tell me ok? No pretending or ignoring the transport. If you get an infection then it'll just keep you away from the case even longer."

Sherlock glared at him but nodded.

After a minute John took the device from him and checked it.

"You're a little hotter than normal, but nothing dangerous." He nodded satisfied. "Some sleep would help."

"No time." Sherlock stood.

He seemed unsteady for a second and John held his arm.

"Toast." Sherlock looked to him and John raised his eyebrows. "Would be good, Doctor." He finished and John smiled at the obvious attempts at deflecting any more attention from Sherlock's sleeping habits.

"Ok. Drink your tea. I put a sugar in it for your blood sugar."

"Whatever you say Doctor." Sherlock gave a small smile and walked slowly into the living room to lie back on the couch once more.

John shook his head but moved to the kitchen to make toast with jam. They could both use some food. He made another cup of tea for himself as he prepared the food and plated it up. By the time he walked through to the living room again, Sherlock had actually fallen asleep with one leg hanging off of the couch.

He chuckled quietly and sat the toast down. Sherlock really should take his anti-biotic and eat before sleeping but if he woke him now, he'd never be able to get him to sleep willingly afterwards. He checked his watch. He'd let him sleep for a while and wake him in a few hours to take the pill then.

He carefully lay a blanket over the sleeping detective and retreated to his chair to read the paper, forgetting for a few minutes that he actually didn't live here anymore. He checked his phone and found a text from Mary.

 _I take it you're babysitting tonight?_

 _Yeah, sorry love I forgot the time._

 _That's fine. How is he?_

 _As grumpy as ever. He's running a slight temperature so think I need to keep an eye on him tonight._

 _Let me know if you need anything.x_

 _I will.x_

He tucked his phone into his pocket and sat the paper down, watching the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. That wound on his neck was enormous. He'd been lucky to find him in time. He'd panicked to see so much blood on his friend, but it wouldn't be the first time. He frowned as he thought about the shape of the wound. It was definitely a bite – there was no doubt about that. Why would a dog bite him though? Was an animal set on him and if it was, where did it go? He hadn't heard anything like a dog barking as he'd approached. As he ran to catch up, he'd heard what sounded like Sherlock's baritone voice making a muffled sound of pain, that was all. It had been muffled. Muffled by what though? Had the suspect gotten a hold of him first before the dog attack and tried to restrain him by covering his mouth and grabbing him in a lock? If he had, how had he ended up dead next to Sherlock with a broken neck?

It raised some interesting questions and he could see that Donovan was suspicious. She hadn't come right out and accused Sherlock of any foul play, but he could tell it had occurred to her. Thankfully the fact that this suspect was one of Moriarty's surviving players and therefore Sherlock needed him alive to figure out if Moriarty indeed had somehow survived a bullet to the head – was enough to prevent any questioning of Sherlock on the matter. Sherlock had needed the guy alive and therefore killing him would have been illogical.

Why would an animal attack Sherlock and not even bother with the dead body lying on the ground? The animal may have to have been instructed to do so or felt threatened. Perhaps the dog had been owned by the suspect and had attacked Sherlock in some sort of retaliation. That would suggest that Sherlock had indeed injured its owner though and that didn't make sense.

"I can hear you thinking. It's painful." Sherlock's deep voice resonated and John huffed in disappointment and looked over to him.

Sherlock remained with his eyes closed.

"Thought you were resting." He said.

"Just resting my eyes." Sherlock defended, looking towards him now.

"Rest them some more then, but first take your pill." He stood up and handed him his antibiotic, which Sherlock swallowed without any water.

"You're worried I'm now a suspect in the murder." He said, searching John's face.

"You're not."

"The thought has occurred." Sherlock said and John tilted his head in query. "I have sufficient enough strength to have broken his neck, but no motive to do so. It would be ridiculous not to consider me a potential suspect however."

"You're not a suspect. Even Donovan knows how much you wanted to get answers out of that guy. Just rest. Please." He lay his hand on Sherlock's forehead again and smiled a little when he felt a lowered temperature.

"If you insist." Sherlock closed his eyes again and John smiled in triumph.

"I'll be right down the hall if you need me." He said quietly and Sherlock grunted.

He checked his watch again. He'd be ok to have some sleep for a few hours and check on him for his next pill in four hours. He stretched, happy to see Sherlock's deep inhale and exhale once more, indicating sleep and he made his way quietly up to his old bedroom. Sherlock had kept it identical to when he'd lived there and he settled comfortably into the mattress and closed his eyes.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock was back to himself in a matter of days which John was relieved about, but he'd been a terrible patient and John had barely gotten any shut eye during the last few days.

Sherlock had broken out into a shivering fever on the first night home, despite his efforts to keep the wound clean and the antibiotics flowing. John had dealt with men in fever before but Sherlock was no normal person. After a few hours asleep he'd been awoken by Sherlock shouting and thrashing.

He ran down into the living room to find him sheathed in sweat and distressed.

"Sherlock, hey it's alright, you're alright!" He tried to soothe him but Sherlock's eyes had been glassy, his skin paler again.

Although it went against his instincts to simply remove objects from his surrounding environment that he could hurt himself with, John had in fact had to forcibly restrain him by sitting on him to pin him down. Sherlock was strong, even in this state and John had taken a few blows before Sherlock had given up exhausted and weak.

He'd known Sherlock was good at arm to arm combat, but he'd never thought to ask where the evident training in boxing had come from. He made a mental note to ask him when he was better, as he wiped his bloody nose with a handkerchief. Sherlock's fist packed a wallop.

"John!" Sherlock shouted from under him. "He's getting away!"

"I got him Sherlock. I got him." He said softly and stroked some sweat away from the detective's brow, now that he had stopped fighting and wriggling.

Sherlock looked at him, narrowing his eyes.

"Lestrade got him, its ok. You can rest now." He cooed and Sherlock stared at him unblinkingly for another few moments before he nodded and closed his eyes.

"Jesus." John exhaled and began to regret bringing him home to Baker St at all.

Once he'd fallen asleep, he had climbed off of him, covering him with a fresh blanket. Perhaps he should get an I.V so he didn't have to keep waking him to take his pill. That would be better.

In the end he had done just that, begrudgingly having to call on Mrs Hudson to babysit while he went to Barts and retrieve what he needed. He knew he wouldn't be able to trust Sherlock not to attempt to get up and dressed so he could begin working again, so he'd left Mrs Hudson strict instructions to make sure Sherlock didn't move from the couch.

When he returned he found a scowling, irritated Sherlock on the couch with his back to the room and Mrs Hudson humming to herself as she made a pot of tea. Sherlock seemed to visibly sag in relief at the sound of John's footsteps coming up to the flat.

John walked into the living room, placing the IV stand down, removing his jacket and hanging it up on the hook. Sherlock had buried his face against the back of the couch and it was clear he was sulking.

"Where did you go?" Sherlock's voice emanated, muffled by the cushions. "To see Lestrade?"

"No. How are you feeling?"

"Dull."

"Ok, that's good then." John pulled out the bag of liquid anti-biotics and hung it on the hook on the stand.

The rustling movement made Sherlock turned over in interest and look at the stand.

"You're not serious!" He huffed.

"Take it from me, this is a better way Sherlock. Last night I felt like I was having a few rounds with Mike Tyson. This is for my health as much as yours."

Sherlock studied John's face, picking up vaguely on the swelling and redness around his mouth and nose. He had no recollection of punching him at all. John took in the fleeting expressions on his face as his mind deduced the moves from last night and he smiled.

"It's ok. You were hallucinating."

"Hmmn." Sherlock grunted and winced, touching his neck.

"Time to change your dressing." John said and moved to go and get what he needed from the bathroom.

Sherlock sat up, cursing his biology. When would this damn thing heal? Mrs Hudson brought in a cup of tea for him and fussed over how ill he still looked.

"Sherlock! You should be in your bed not out here on the sofa." She scolded as she wrapped a blanket around his thin shoulders.

"I'm perfectly fine here." He mumbled as he sipped on the tea, swallowing the sweat nectar and closing his eyes in enjoyment.

"Thanks for sitting in Mrs Hudson." John re-appeared with his medical box in hand.

"Anytime. Just remember I have bridge tonight with my cousin and her friend from Australia. Don't see them much these days, what with her heart and the hip replacement, you know. Her friend is going through a divorce from a man she met on a cruise – you know what I always say about those sailor types…" She began to gossip, while John opened his bag and withdrew his cotton buds and saline.

"Mrs Hudson…fascinating as this is, I have lost enough blood without having my ears similarly affected." Sherlock moaned and John sighed at her in apology.

"Right, well then. I'll be off." She chirped, seeming unscathed by his comments as she bounced back down to her apartment.

Sherlock continued to sip his tea as John cleaned the wound, pressing around the edges slightly to gauge it.

"Can you remember what you were dreaming about last night?" He asked as he checked Sherlock's face continuously for signs of pain.

Sherlock frowned, focussing on the memory.

"It seemed like a bad one. You called Moriarty's name a few times." He said and Sherlock tensed. "He's dead Sherlock. You know that. No one survives a bullet to the brain. No one, not even him."

Sherlock was non-committal in his responding grunt.

"Did you dream about the dog? You were fighting me, like you were being attacked."

Sherlock turned his head to look at him and winced as the skin pulled at his wound.

"I apologise for my behaviour John." He said sincerely.

"It wasn't your fault. You had a fever – something I intend not to happen again." He indicated to the IV and Sherlock huffed.

"Seems a bit overkill."

"No, it's really not. If you were in a controlled environment in the hospital then you'd have people here around the clock to notice if you were in distress."

"Inaccurate at best." Sherlock said grumpily.

"Otherwise, _this_ is my insurance. I'll be no good to you if I don't get some sleep too and I can't very well sleep on the floor next to you all night."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him in amusement.

"I'm too old for that malarkey." John smirked and they both chuckled.

"Agreed."

"This would be a lot more comfortable if you were in bed…"

Sherlock frowned and opened his mouth to disagree, when he continued quickly,

"…and easier on my knees."

Sherlock closed his mouth again and nodded.

"Good. You still feel hot so maybe a tepid shower before I re-dress it ok?"

"Agreed." Sherlock said, taking in how damp his nightclothes were.

John helped him stand up and he went to the bathroom, closing the door behind him as he stripped and entered the shower. He was careful not to let any of the shower beat down on his neck, but it proved difficult. Once he was clean, he took a moment, pressing his face against the cold shower tiles before he got out, his legs shaking a little. He felt dreadful still.

He wrapped himself in a clean bath robe and walked back out to find John, pulling the bed clothes back for him. John eyed his bathrobe.

"Do you need help to change?"

Sherlock looked at him as though he had two heads and John put his hands up and chuckled.

"I'll leave you to it then. Give me a shout when you're comfortable and I'll get you plugged in.

The I.V stand made the room look clinical and not in the way he liked. He huffed as he went to his armoire and pulled out some pyjama bottoms. He normally slept in a t-shirt too but he felt hot. He forwent underwear and slipped on the bottoms, feeling comforted by the smell of fabric softener as he slid into the cold bed. The coolness was good.

He must have fallen asleep as he awoke suddenly at the pinch of a needle piercing his skin.

"Sorry." John apologised for startling him and he looked down at his arm to see the I.V line being placed into him.

"How long was I asleep?"

"Not long." John answered and he huffed annoyed. "This is a good thing Sherlock. Your body is making the decision for you, just let it. Hopefully if we can both get a good night's rest we'll be able to tackle the case again tomorrow." He bargained.

Sherlock's eyes lit up at the mention of the case at hand and John chuckled.

"Tell you what, you sleep and eat whenever I tell you to and maybe I'll get Lestrade round with the case files tomorrow."

"That sounds like a reasonable agreement."

"Good." John smiled and gave the bag of anti-biotics a quick tap with his fingers to begin the process.

Sherlock closed his eyes once more and fell into peaceful slumber.

Sherlock had been good and stuck to the rules, resulting in a whole night's rest for both of them. The next morning John awoke him with breakfast and tea and he was surprised at how hungry he actually felt – of course he would never admit that.

Lestrade came round and they went through what they knew about Malcolmson. Sherlock inevitably tried to get Lestrade to allow him to view the body, but he was still under house arrest as far as John and the hospital were concerned. Still, having the case dangled in front of him like a prized carrot was enough motivation for him to recover as speedily as possible and he did.

Now, John smiled to himself as he watched Sherlock adjust his microscope – his brilliant mind ticking things off of some list in his mind as he tried to figure out what the compound was.

"Where did you take the sample from again?" John leafed through a few of Molly's records.

Sherlock had been somewhat happier that at least she had been the one to first examine and perform an autopsy on Malcolmson's body and not any of the other people in the department whose I.Q could be measured in single digits – according to Sherlock of course. Molly – he trusted. He did still get access to the body himself afterwards, but he was aware of the paramount amount of care she took when handling something of such high importance to him. Like John, she was also convinced of Moriarty's death – she'd seen the body on the roof and her staff had taken it down for autopsy. She hadn't been able to conduct the autopsy herself, as she had been faking Sherlock's own demise, but she knew that no one came back from the kind of damage she had witnessed on the ground of the rooftop.

"Behind his left ear." Sherlock answered without removing his focus from the slide at his fingertips.

"And it's definitely organic?" John frowned, trying to figure out the puzzling data.

Sherlock grunted in confirmation.

"And it's…" John flipped the page over and sighed in surprise, "…not human."

"Obviously." Sherlock said in monotone.

John rubbed at his chin as he thought on that.

"Behind his ear. Some kind of hair gel? Cosmetic treatment or something?"

"Already ruled out after three seconds."

"Ok." John sighed.

Sherlock continued to work silently for another few minutes before he sat back and folded his arms across his chest.

"Do you think it's important?" John askedui8 and Sherlock looked to him in disbelief.

"Every detail, no matter how minute is important John." He said incredulously and John looked down at the report and took in a deep breath to diswade any anger.

Sherlock recognised the look of control and he licked his lips.

"Besides, too much about this doesn't make sense as it is." He said in a much more consolatory tone.

"Shame there were no CCTV camera's in that alley."

"None?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John shook his head. "Convenient."

"I thought so." John folded his arms too and Sherlock shot him a look of intrigue. "I've not just been nurse-maiding you, you know. I've been retracing our steps, trying to figure out how you managed to get so far ahead of me without me seeing or hearing anything."

"What have you found?" Sherlock lowered his eyes, unable to thank John for being his 'nurse-maid'.

It was too humiliating, but John knew that at least.

"The route he took was odd for one thing." He commented and Sherlock's eyes glittered as he looked at him with interest.

"I'm surprised you haven't noticed it before now. You are the walking sat nav of the London streets after all."

Sherlock frowned and John stood up and pulled a London city map out of his pocket, laying it out on the table before them.

"This is where he first caught sight of us yeah?"

He pointed to a spot he had marked with a dot and Sherlock stood up and hovered over it next to him.

"Now from what I can tell, there were four possible points he could have turned to get around us, even with Lestrade coming from the other side of these warehouses." John paused, looking at him and expecting him to comment but he merely allowed John to continue. "So why did he chose this one? This route had us all going round three, four, five separate corners – now I might not be a criminal on the run…"

"Not this time." Sherlock smirked, remembering their run in handcuffs when the whole of Scotland Yard thought he had invented Moriarty.

"…but I know how important it is to get as much distance between you and whoever is chasing you is and taking corners like these ones…" he pointed to each, "…only slows you down. Especially when you have three other routes which you could have taken."

"Perhaps he didn't know the area as well as you evidently do Captain Watson." Sherlock smirked but John could see that there was something else rolling over inside Sherlock's brain.

"But you do." He said and Sherlock's smirk grew wider. "You _have_ noticed this."

Sherlock lifted his coat from the back of the stool he'd formerly occupied and John sighed and folded the map back up into his pocket.

"When did you figure it out?" He asked.

"What?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"That he was leading you there on purpose? That he must have known that this way was the best route to have me lagging behind because of my height, with all the twists and turns and that with your long legs you'd still catch up to him?" John folded his arms.

"Don't feel bad John. It took even me an hour after waking up in hospital to come to that conclusion."

"An hour?" John said in disbelief.

"Come on, it's time we have another look at the crime scene." Sherlock walked past him, putting his scarf around his neck careful not rub at his still visible dressing.

"An hour?!" John asked again, following behind him.

Sherlock scanned the alleyway, now void of the customary police tape that had been here since the 'attack'. John mapped out for him the position and location he had found he and Malcolmson in and he nodded as he generated different possibilities.

"Did you bring the photographs?" Sherlock asked and John handed him a casefile.

He flipped it open looking through the photographs taken just after the incident. His blood was still clearly on the ground where John had found him. He examined it carefully.

"No spatter. The blood loss was a controlled one, almost no trace evidence on the wall or on the corpse." He mumbled, getting his magnifier out and looking again.

John waited for his next theory.

"Tracks?"

"Hm?" John hummed.

"Animal tracks. I assume there were forensics taken of the surrounding ground and mud."

"Just what's there."

"Really John! Didn't you make sure?" He huffed and John cleared his throat.

"Um, I was a little busy." He reminded, picturing the paleness of Sherlock's face as he was giving him CPR and trying to stem the flow of blood at his neck.

"Yes." Sherlock said contritely and looked back to the photograph.

It was so frustrating to be days behind in this. All of the trace evidence had been destroyed by now and it left him with so little to work with.

"Ok then, tell me what you remember exactly as you remember it." He said instead and John squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, filled with emotion.

This wasn't a simple case of John stumbling upon a crime scene, it had been his best friend dying in his arms. He cleared his throat again and gave a nod.

"I lost sight of you. I heard you cry out, but it was muffled like you were being gagged or something."

"Gagged?"

"Yeah. I came around this corner and almost fell over the body before I saw you."

"Where was I exactly?" Sherlock's cold tone of indifference never ceased to make John hesitant.

"You were here, unconscious." He pointed to the spot and Sherlock came closer to inspect the wall with his magnifier.

"Tiny amounts of blood spatter, presumably projected onto the wall by the incision." He mumbled. "How was I positioned?"

"Well, you were half sitting to this side, almost onto of the corpse actually."

"Specifics John!"

John exhaled through his nose and Sherlock sat down against the wall and awaited instruction.

"What are you..? God, Sherlock." He sighed in disbelief as Sherlock looked to him to instruct him into position. "Christ."

"I understand this must be a traumatic experience for you John, but please." Sherlock said and John grunted unhappily.

"Lean over a bit, there. And your arm was reaching out, here." He moved him into position and Sherlock lay there pliantly. "Your head was turned like this."

Sherlock lay in the placed position, his eyes tracing back and forth as his mind worked on and John closed his eyes and rubbed his face. It was eery to see this. The vision of a dying Sherlock was still imprinted on his brain and this was just…wrong.

Sherlock stood up after a few minutes and brushed himself off.

"Happy? Can we go now?" John asked sarcastically and Sherlock looked to him surprised.

"A bit not good?"

"Just a little yeah."

"Fine. I think we've learned all from here that we can."

"Which is?"

"I'm not sure yet." Sherlock huffed and began to walk back to the street again.

John took one last look at the scene before following him.

In the end, Lestrade's team had no choice but to come up with their own theories of how Malcomson had died. Sherlock's mood was fowl. He hated not being able to solve a case, especially one of such importance and involving himself, quite literally. Reports had been searched to find any similar dog attacks in the area but none compared to the mauling that Sherlock had received. Eventually after a few months, the buzz died down. It was concluded by Scotland Yard that both Sherlock and Malcomson had been at the wrong place and the wrong time – disturbing a drug exchange. Sherlock's face was well known to all Londoners and the sight of him usually heralded the following pursuit of Scotland Yard. Therefore it was concluded that his presence amidst an exchange had startled the offender's into setting a dog on him and killing Malcolmson. The alleyways of that neighbourhood were notorious for drug trafficking and it made sense. Sherlock had lost a lot of blood and presumably the drug dealers had assumed it would be enough to kill him, or otherwise they ran out of time with the sounds of John in pursuit.

It didn't sit right with Lestrade, but it had been the most likely explanation.

Life returned to normal, but John could tell that Sherlock still thought on it often. His wound was fully healed but had left some scarring on his neck and throat. Perhaps if the visible scars had faded completely, Sherlock may have been able to move on but John knew that there was no moving on from any case his brilliant friend couldn't solve.

Thankfully, real life interceded to quench some of his friend's melancholy. He and Mary were to be married today and Sherlock had been a dutiful aide in its preparations. Mary cared for Sherlock too, which made things so much easier. After a terrible stag do which had them ballsing up an investigation and ending the evening in a drunk tank – they went their separate ways to dress for the big day.

Sherlock was quiet and respectful – unlike his usual self and despite having to solve a case of attempted murder during the middle of the proceedings, they had managed to save the life of one of John's most respected army friends. Life was good. Mary and he were going to be parents and Sherlock had his grove back.

As the night wore on Sherlock realised just how little he was needed here anymore. John was happy. Mary and he were building a family – one that wouldn't be troubled by ghosts of consulting criminals and all the ramifications of such. He was happy for him and yet grieved for the end of what he'd thought might be…something he'd never had before. A partner he could rely on always. Of course John would always be there for him to help with cases and to check he was eating and not jumping off any more buildings but…John had his own priorities now and that was expected.

He lifted his coat, sneaking out of the hall as more cheesy 80s music came on. He closed the door, not saying goodbye. Why spoil the moment for them? He walked with his hands in his pockets, feeling the brisk night air fill his lungs.

It wasn't too late in the evening so he managed to get a cab back to Bakers St with relative ease. He hung his coat up at the door and gazed at John's empty chair. He exhaled. The thought occurred to play his violin for a while but he had left it by accident at the wedding party. He'd collect it later. Perhaps he should sleep, he felt world weary.

He'd even called Mycroft earlier, hoping for…what? A familiar shoulder to cry on so to speak? Familiarity amongst a sea of confusing, normal people. Yes. Perhaps the familiar was comforting and although he and his brother would normally try at all costs to avoid each other, he had to admit that in most ways, they were the same. He'd felt oddly comforted by being able to speak to him earlier. What a strange development.

He shook his head, running a hand through his curls and moved to his bedroom. He opened the door, not bothering to turn on the light as he undressed methodically – placing his expensive tuxedo and accessories back into the hanger bag from which they'd come, before tucking it back into his wardrobe. He doubted he'd have any opportunity to adorn it again. He had no other people in his life whom would grant him such a position at a wedding.

He stripped to his boxers, threw on a t-shirt and slid into his bed. He folded his arms across his chest and fell asleep.

He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep before he felt as though there was someone in the room with him. He opened his eyes and his vision seemed tinted and slightly warped. Of course. Dreaming.

He grunted and sat up looking around. He didn't often dream so lucidly. Normally he had no idea that he was asleep whilst dreaming. There was a figure standing at his door and he felt his heart begin to race. Not a dream then, but a familiar nightmare.

"Moriarty." He said and Moriarty approached into the dim light in the room.

"Hello dear. Have you missed me?" The Irish voice chimed and Sherlock held his body tight. "Can't stop dreaming about me can you? If I were a psychiatrist I might think that you had feelings for me Sherlock."

"Oh I have _feelings_." Sherlock watched him like a hawk as he sauntered over, idly touching all of the items adorning Sherlock's bedside table.

"Bad ones and good ones I wager. You just can't let me go can you?" Moriarty gave a smile which made Sherlock's stomach churn. "Even in your dreams. While in your bed none the less."

Sherlock flinched as Moriarty reached out to touch his face. He remained calm and allowed his cheek to be stroked by Moriarty's cold fingertips.

"Tell me, did you ever wonder what it would be like? You and me?"

Sherlock swallowed thickly.

"Criminal and detective, black and white, yin and yang…" Moriarty said in a sing song voice and sat down on the bedside, turning to him close enough to make Sherlock's skin crawl.

"You know, we did make a good pairing. Even little Johnny could see that. There was nothing that could come between our destiny – even your little pet."

"Except death." Sherlock pointed out and he smirked and nodded.

"Yes. Except _that_! How dull dying was – don't you think? Hardly a challenge really, especially if _you_ could pull it off and come back."

"And how did _you_ do it?" Sherlock leaned closer to his face, watching as Moriarty's pupils dilated.

How extraordinary to see someone in such perfect detail even whilst dreaming. Then again, Sherlock's mind palace was full of infinite details and it would be at the head of the helm whilst asleep. Perhaps he could learn something here, something that was trapped in his unconscious mind.

"Sherlock, you always were so stupid." Moriarty stuck his tongue out sadly and cupped his face. "I _didn't_." He whispered conspiratorily.

Sherlock smirked and Moriarty's expression became serious for a second as his fingertips trailed into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock tensed.

"Does it still hurt?" He asked and Sherlock drew him an expression of disinterest.

Moriarty touched it tenderly while Sherlock repressed the urge to shrink away from him.

"It was a bad one. Painful. Someone hasn't learned how to share his toys."

Sherlock stored that comment in his mind for later. It seemed an odd thing to say, even for Morairty.

"You're human after all." Moriarty mumbled. "My fragile Sherlock."

"And how's the back of your head?" Sherlock responded, trying to draw Moriarty's attention away from his skin.

It was like being fondled by a preying mantis.

Moriarty appeared not to hear his question, or if he had he didn't respond, simply leaning closer to inspect the scar. Sherlock held still, aching to remove him. Wasn't this supposed to be his dream? He was about to physically push him away when Moriarty leaned in further and licked up his neck over the scar. He trembled, unable to stop himself and Moriarty pulled back with a look of almost aroused satisfaction on his face.

"Hmmmn." Moriarty sounded and searched his face. "You know, I thought maybe with all the flirting we've done, you might be at least a little more receptive."

"To what exactly?"

"An exchange."

"Of body fluids?" Sherlock kept his expression neutral and raised an eyebrow and Moriarty chuckled.

"Of sorts. I could do such wonderful things to you Sherlock. I could change your world."

Sherlock smirked at him sarcastically and Moriarty pulled back to release his face. Everywhere he had touched, tingled Sherlock's skin.

"I could make you count again, make you special."

"Oh I have a sufficient amount of importance thank you."

"Do you really?" Moriarty asked innocently. "Is that why no one has noticed you left the little party tonight?"

Sherlock swallowed.

"No one's missing poor Sherlock. No one cares about him anymore. Now he's dull. He can't even solve a simple case."

Sherlock glared at him and he stood up and moved back towards the door again.

"I'll be back dear. Can't seem to stay away from you, even now. It's interesting!" He chuckled to himself but seemed honestly surprised by his declaration. "In fact I find you, now even more…fascinating than before."

"If you're alive I will find you and I'll stop you."

"Ooow!" Moriarty held his hands up as he continued to back away. "Sherlock the Hero. Don't fool yourself in to thinking that you want to get me because of some sense of justice. You just miss _this_. The epic romance between our minds."

"Get out of my head." Sherlock finally crumbled and put his face in his hands.

"Oops. Hit a sore spot there!" Moriarty quipped, enjoying their interplay far too much for Sherlock's liking. "When you're ready, I'll be back poppet. Till then…dream of me."

With that grand request he seemed to disappear and Sherlock stared at the space he'd been standing in for a few moments. He lay back down and closed his eyes, willing himself to waken.


	3. Chapter 3

Aperatif Chapter 3

Weeks went past without another nightmare. Sherlock got back into a pattern he could control. John was scarcely around – deep in the midst of marital bliss and he hadn't seen him for a while. Cases came and went but nothing substantial enough to keep him busy and occupy his mind. He needed something. His mind was full of sentiment and questions, everything blurred with the constant noise and rush of senses and still, he couldn't let the case of malcolmson's strange, unexplained death go. His usual procedure in these circumstances was to clear the cobwebs in his mind, elevate it into clarity with his old friend. His seven percentage solution.

The silence it would bring to the noise, the calm washing over of some of his senses into order – the…rest from sentiment for lack of a better description, made him all the more productive. Of course neither John nor Molly agreed, but there was something to be said of allowing his brain to shut down the external and focus inwards with the aid of the drug. Perhaps sensory silence would bring clarity, clear the drawing board.

The needle pierced his skin in a practised fashion and he exhaled as the mixture warmed his insides.

He lay back amongst the blankets of his bed and stared at the ceiling, finally feeling as though he could think clearly. His brain worked too fast, even for him at times. There was no real respite from that, no holiday from physical sensations and disturbances that this wonderful needle-bound friend couldn't relieve. He would take enough to get the resolve he needed and no more. He wasn't foolish enough to believe that it wouldn't become an addictive problem like Morphine.

He'd fallen into his own world many times during one of his 'sensory vacations', but none had seemed quite as serene as this one. He exhaled and closed his eyes peacefully. His usually canine-like auditory sense was dulled, so dulled he never heard the other presence in the room. He may have passed out, fallen asleep, he wasn't sure how much time had passed when he felt the bed sink, a weight resting above him and he opened his eyes.

"Not you." He mumbled. "It can't be."

Had he not felt so relaxed he may have questioned the figure of Moriarty looming over him like a snake watching its prey.

"Oh dear, did I come too late? Has Sherlock given himself a temporary lobotomy?" Moriarty whispered, a grin spreading and Sherlock exhaled.

"Leave me alone."

"Are you sure that's really what you want?" Moriarty tilted his head and Sherlock blinked at him groggily. "Seems like you could use some distraction."

"You are…" Sherlock licked his lips for emphasis, "…harshing my buzz."

"Oh Sherlock, let's not sink as low as to resort to the common vernacular." He tutted at him and Sherlock turned his head away and sighed.

Moriarty gazed at him, enjoying this moment of frailness. He'd known Sherlock would succumb to boredom eventually. It happened to the best of them and he'd been eager to be here to see it, to taste it in the air.

Sherlock began to drift into a haze and Moriarty held his furthest away cheek and tilted his face back to his.

"I brought you a gift."

"A gift?"

"Haven't I always given you gifts? Tokens of my affection?"

"Bombs. Hitmen. Taxi drivers." Sherlock accused, regaining a little of the twinkle in his eyes as he spoke.

"That's right my love. I knew you'd enjoy it." Moriarty grinned. "But in this case, I knew you'd be in need of a distraction. So I thought I'd give you a hint."

"A hint for what?"

Moriarty smiled mischievously.

"It isn't a game if I tell you the answer." He snorted jokingly, scolding and shook his head as Sherlock's eyes cleared a little more.

He leaned down and touched their noses together. Sherlock's eyes widened and he tensed under him.

"No need to thank me just yet, but you will."

Moriarty turned Sherlock's head to the side to expose his scar once more, but this time Sherlock tried to push him away in disgust. Moriarty chuckled and pinned his arms down.

"This is a test for me too you know. Resisting just telling you what you want to know. What you're _aching_ to know." He whispered against the shell of Sherlock's ear and Sherlock put all of his strength into fighting him, managing to hurtle him off of him completely.

Moriarty chuckled manically and lay down next to him, side by side as Sherlock tried to sit up and move away from him, falling back onto his back.

"Annoying when you just can't put your finger on something isn't it? When you know that there's something you've missed but you just don't know where to start looking again."

Sherlock turned his head and looked at him again, blinking heavily.

"You should get yourself a new pet. Bit…uneventful around here. No one to listen to you and tell you how wonderful you are. No affection." He looked up at the ceiling leisurely as he spoke and Sherlock exhaled and blinked again, his vision clouding a little.

"A lizard or something." Moriarty continued.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock began to chuckle, the drugs already beginning to wear off disappointingly.

Damn his well weathered body.

"Not just any lizard though, no, that would be too predictable for you. It would have to be something weird and unique like you. A freak of nature."

Sherlock chuckled again.

"Aren't tongues great?" Moriarty rolled onto his side and leaned over him and Sherlock burst into laughter. "Even the sound of the word…tonnnnguesss."

Sherlock frowned at him, feeling a little on edge and slightly delirious and Moriarty licked his lips and looked at his mouth.

"If I were you I would take a page out of little Zach's book. Aren't the Dutch just soooo studious?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion – his brain beginning to come back online again.

"What?"

"Uh, Sherlock I do hope you're paying attention." Moriarty scolded and gave him a small slap on the cheek and Sherlock blinked and looked up at him. "Good boy. I hate repeating myself. As I was saying, I…you know what? I've compleeetly lost my train of thought." He began to chuckle and Sherlock shook his head, feeling his sense returning rapidly.

"Is that all you have to say, random gibberish. I would have thought you'd be more interesting in my mind palace."

"Well you have just gone and filled it with poison." Moriarty chuckled again and shook his head. "You only get more when I decide you're ready for it."

"When I'm ready for what?" Sherlock asked and Moriarty tucked some of Sherlock's curls behind his ear.

"For the rest of the game!" Moriarty's eyes widened as he spoke and he drew down Sherlock's body, away from him and got off of the bed as slow as a creeping spider.

Sherlock tried to sit up but couldn't get his muscles to move. He turned onto his side and fell onto the floor, concentrating on his breathing, willing some life back into his limbs but it was ill fated and he collapsed onto his face and fell into the stupor which had been held off by Moriarty's presence.

He awoke to the front door pounding in the lounge and he grumbled and lifted his head. He was positioned exactly as he remembered – in a heap on the floor. He staggered to his feet, trying to figure out what had happened and saw his needle case lying on the floor. He grunted in remembrance and looked down at his arm – the needle was still attached to his skin. He quickly pulled it out, wincing and tossed it onto his bed, before stumbling towards the lounge.

"Ok!" He called out as he rubbed his face and undid the latch to unlock the door.

He opened it a little and grunted.

"Hello brother dear." He drawled and Mycroft took in the sight of him. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He walked away from the door, leaving it to swing open as he threw himself down onto the sofa. Mycroft walked in with a stiff upper lip as always and took in the general orderliness of the room in surprise.

"I was reliably informed of your early departure from John's wedding festivities." He said and Sherlock huffed. "Little dramatic don't you think?"

"Your people are getting slow brother, you should really fire your surveillance team. John's wedding was weeks ago." He mocked and Mycroft sighed.

"I was out of the country for…well, you don't need the details."

"Please, save me that intrigue." Sherlock smirked. "Weeks gone past and yet you're here to check up on me _now_. Why?"

"A phone call twice in one week?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow and took a seat across from him as was their routine.

Sherlock sat up, intimidated and glared at him.

"I didn't know you cared." Mycroft added, smiling patronizingly. "Or was it more that _you_ , needed the care?"

"Don't be obtuse. I was simply extending John's invitation and ensuring my role as best man was performed adequately." Sherlock brushed him off.

"Indeed. I heard the piece you devised for the occasion was…heartfelt."

"Of course."

"In any respects I simply wanted to enquire as to your emotional health. Doctor Watson after all was your most important companion and it is the end of an era – as they say."

"How poetic, but if you don't mind I have a case."

"Oh Sherlock, come on. You know that you can't fool me." Mycroft sat forward a little. "I've always been able to tell when you're faking and when you're high."

"How studious of you." He smirked, before recalling his drug induced hallucination. "As you can see I'm guilty of neither at this moment."

Mycroft noticed the change in his whole demeanour and searched his face.

"Then why are your pupils still dilated?" He enquired.

"Because your presence is drawing all of the air out of the room and giving me a migraine!" Sherlock threw his hands up and stood, moving to his violin stand and remembering that his violin was still at the wedding venue.

"A Stradivarius is not something one should leave around, little brother. Perhaps next time I shall get you a rental."

Sherlock ignored him and began to riffle through his manuscript papers. Mycroft stood up and moved behind him.

"Recently we have been able to talk more openly. I'd hoped that it might continue."

"Yes, I imagine you do. It would save MI5 thousands on surveillance equipment." Sherlock remarked, ignoring him as he continued to move his sheets of paper around the desk.

"Sherlock." Mycroft said, his tone vulnerable enough to make Sherlock pause for a second. "Remember that John Watson isn't the only person in the world who cares for you."

"Brother dear are you getting sentimental in your old age?" Sherlock turned his head to look at him.

"Perhaps." Mycroft fidgeted with his umbrella and Sherlock felt his urge to flay him verbally, decrease.

"I just recall how you've dealt with issues of boredom before. You can't afford to fall into those…habits, again. You have too much at stake now."

"And what would that be?" Sherlock fully turned to him now in sarcastic inquiry.

"The affections of your friends of course. You're no longer alone."

Sherlock was speechless and couldn't think of a single snide remark to drive his brother away. Mycroft gave him a small smile and moved away from him, twirling his umbrella.

"Yes, well. I better be off."

"Got a war to start across the globe?" Sherlock smirked as they fell into the usual routine of denial and game playing.

Mycroft kept his back turned but paused at the door and braced the doorway, sighing.

"I'm here Sherlock. I always will be."

Sherlock cleared his throat and began to fidget with his manuscript again silently and Mycroft took his leave.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A few more weeks passed in relative quiet. More cases came and went, but there was no word from John. He ached to run his observations, theories and deductions by his faithful blogger again but he couldn't misjudge his place in John's hierarchy now. When John wanted to see him, he'd come by or he would arrange it and so Sherlock would wait until that time.

He'd had more strange dreams, surrounding the Malcolmson case but as yet he was unable to derive any memory which proved to be useful for evidence, despite his continuing efforts within his mind palace. He'd always hoped that his mind was above the effects of shock and trauma, but apparently not. It was disappointing to say the least. He'd even considered trying some hypnotherapy as a last resort but he couldn't lend 100% credence to the practise and therefore didn't trust that he could stick by any traces of memory recovered from its use surrounding the animal attack. That was the root of his issue. His inability to remember and figure out what had really happened was becoming an obsession. Something had been missed by the forensics and he had absolutely no idea where to start looking. He felt vulnerable and useless – not a feeling he was used to.

He shuffled in his stool at Bart's, absent mindedly scratching over his scar when one of Molly's interns entered noisily. He raised his eye from the microscope and glared in annoyance at the young women, who stopped in her tracks in recognition of his presence.

"Sorry, I thought everyone was gone for the night." She apologised and continued to stare at him as he tried to re-examine the compound found behind Malcolmson's ear again.

There was a mystery to this compound and he couldn't shake the feeling that it was important.

The young women's breathing rate increased and he flicked his eyes to her, noticing the dilation of her pupil's and he sighed silently. His return from the dead had only increased his popularity – especially with that of the opposite sex. It was equal parts useful and torturously irritating. Thankfully Molly could control herself around him now, but this wasn't the first time he'd been ambushed in a Kitty O'Reilly manner and propositioned. What was it that women saw in him exactly?

 _Daddy issues._

He smirked to himself in jest. Surely only someone chasing a male father replacement figure would be attracted to someone like himself whom showed no interest or emotion.

"Mr Holmes, I know you must get asked this a lot but…"

"I have no interest in romantic attachments." He said in monotone and moved the slide around under the lens. "Trust me, your attentions would be better spent on someone who is capable."

Silence filled the room and he detected a charge of discomfort in the air which was not one borne of embarrassment at refusal. He looked up at the young woman again and noticed her folded arms and perplexed expression. He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"It's right what they say about you. You really are a self-indulgent prat."

"Excuse me?" He said in amusement.

"I wasn't going to ask you for a date Mr Holmes. I'm a scientist."

"An intern." He corrected and she unfolded her arms.

"Yes, well, it doesn't mean that you should just dismiss me. I was going to ask if I could help you." She said and he blinked in surprise.

"How could you possibly help me?"

"Ms Hooper says you like coffee. I can bring you some. Or, if you need someone to give you a second opinion on anything when she's not here…"

"Nancy." He interrupted her and she frowned in surprise that he knew her name. "Name tag in the upper left pocket of your handbag."

He nodded towards the minute sight of the first three letters of her name tag which was almost concealed by the lip of her bag.

"I'm quite sure Ms Hooper has plenty of job related activities for you to be doing, so why would you want to become my barista?" He leant sideways against the table top and folded his arms in fascination.

"I just, I have read all about you and your work is…extraordinary." She said blushing. "Molly…Ms Hooper says that you are one of the great minds of the century, so if I can do anything to help…"

"Who did you lose?"

He asked gently, his eyes darting over her clothing and appearance and picking up evidence of recent grieving, a slight addiction to sleeping tablets evidenced by the colour under her eyes and what seemed like a genuine desire to aid him.

The woman bowed her head, ringing her fingers together.

"My brother. He was killed in an explosion a few years ago."

"An explosion?" He raised an eyebrow.

"He lived in an apartment block next door to his elderly neighbour who was…"

"Deaf." Sherlock finished and Nancy nodded. "I'm…sorry."

She gave a small smile and nodded.

"How did you know it wasn't simply a gas leak?" He asked.

"Molly and I have known each other since school and she told me what really happened."

"Did she now?" Sherlock's tone was displeased.

"She's like family and she knows I would never breach her confidentiality." She said and he cast an expression of irritation. "I needed to know and I couldn't let it go without knowing that my suspicions were correct. My brother was a gas engineer. He'd had known if there was a leak. I knew it was a cover-up and I had to know."

Sherlock nodded silently as he took in that information. It sounded just like Molly to put the feelings of a grieving and paranoid friend over her job at times.

"It's been years now." He pointed out, somewhat confused by the longevity of her grieving and she shook her head and chuckled at him.

"You really don't feel like everyone else do you?" She said and he tilted his head in admittance. "I wanted to become a police officer after it happened. I wanted to do something to stop things like that happening to innocent people, to stop people who use the rest of us for sport."

"I'm glad you realised the futility of that career option." He warmed to her and gave her a smile. "At any rate, I don't believe you could offer me any assistance with this inquiry."

She nodded and smiled back.

"But, should I need a second pair of eyes and you are around…then it wouldn't be unwelcome." He offered placatingly and she smiled again.

He nodded again and returned back to his microscope, assuming the exchange was over, when she cleared her throat to attract his attention again.

"While I am here, do you mind if I grab a few things? I have some small experiments to conduct."

He shook his head and resumed his work as she moved around the room, opening cabinets and removing items. He zoned out and into the sample in front of him again. He had been staring at this sample for weeks now and still had no idea what this organic compound could be. It wasn't human, it wasn't plant in origin…He had even tested it against secretions from a few dog species in the hopes that perhaps whatever animal had attacked him was the root of the sample but all to no avail.

He sat back in his stool and rubbed his eyes sighing, having forgotten about the young intern completely. She had evidently left the room to continue her studies. The very mention of coffee had jolted his salivary glands and he moved from the room to grab a cup from the vending machine down the hall.

He sipped the hot liquid slowly as he wandered back along the corridor deep in thought, when he re-entered the lab and stopped abruptly at the sight of Nancy at his microscope. She gasped in surprise at his light foot tread not alerting her to his presence and stepped back from the desk, blushing.

"Can I help you any further Nancy?" He asked irritated.

"Sorry, I was just curious as to what was testing you so much."

He moved to the desk and she moved around him, out of his way. He sat his coffee down and gave her a short glare as she picked up a few beakers from the desk beside him and began to retreat like a frightened mouse.

"Mr Holmes?"

"What?" He snapped.

"What's the case you're working on?" She asked and he frowned at her. "It's just…you're normally involved in murder cases aren't you?"

"Yes. Your point?" he huffed.

"I've just never known the saliva of a river toad to actually kill anyone before." She commented. "Give them a bad trip yeah but it's not the right kind of toad to cause sufficient poisoning."

"Toads?" He blinked and she nodded.

"I had a few when I was growing up and used to do some experiments on them with my science kits and at school. The saliva of the Colorado River toad looks a little like that and can cause hallucinations and a really bad high but you'd have to have some kind of heart condition for it to be poisonous. There are plenty of other toads that secrete…" she continued but he had already slipped into his mind palace, his senses tingling.

He began to search his memory banks for everything he knew about such a compound. What she was describing could be found in a variety of plants but this type was definitely not. Its structure was different but not altogether dissimilar from the toxins found within the glands of Incilius alvarius toads. What an idiot he was for not having realised that sooner!

The 5-MeO-DMT compound exudated from the toad's glands looked similar to his sample – this was what Nancy had mistaken it for. Was it possible that this compound was a derivative of that or a combination of it with another element?

By the time he re-emerged from his mind palace to look at the compound more closely again, Nancy had disappeared. He was unsure how long he sat there before he realised he was out of his depth and would need to speak to a Herpetologist to learn more about the toads in question.

He stored the sample away safely, before grabbing his coat and stumbling out of the lab.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I'm sorry Mr Holmes, I can see what you mean about its structure but I'm not sure it is 5-MeO-DMT." Dr Wightman advised as he studied the sample.

"Can you offer any deductions as to whether it is naturally occurring or synthesized material?" Sherlock chewed his thumb nail as his whole body vibrated.

"Without more of it, it's almost impossible to tell. You're a chemist aren't you?" The doctor raised an eyebrow and Sherlock sighed. "I'm assuming that this is all you have of it?"

"Yes."

"Well, if I had to hazard a guess, then I would say that it's synthetic due to its shaping here and here." He pointed out two sections of the molecular diagram he'd projected onto his wall.

"So you don't believe this is from the toad directly? Could it have been extracted and combined with something else to make it look like this structure while retaining its qualities?"

"Possibly but not by anyone here or that I know of in the U.K. The Incilius alvarius is an endangered species in the U.S and its native Mexico, so they have stringent laws on exportation. Where did you discover it?"

"Would it still have the psychedelic effects that 5-MeO-DMT can have on humans?" Sherlock pushed and the doctor scratched his greying hair in thought and looked at the compound on the wall once more.

"I would wager it would in certain doses but as for whatever else it has been synthesized with…your guess is as good as mines Mr Holmes."

"Thank you Dr Wightman, this has been helpful." Sherlock shook his hand, leaving him confused and curious.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He didn't want to admit it to himself. He couldn't. If it really was true…

He lay staring at the ceiling of the living room at Baker St. It was too much of a coincidence to have dreamt of Moriarty's hints and for those hints to have become facts. Moriarty had teased him with riddles in his dreams for weeks, discussing the Dutch tendency for research and taking a leaf out of 'Zach's book'. It hadn't taken him long to add two and two together there – Zacharias Jansen, the Dutch spectacle maker who had invented the first light microscope.

Then there was the discussion of him seeking a new pet – a lizard or as Moriarty had advised, getting something as freakish as himself rather than a common lizard, hinting that there was another kind of amphibian that he should be looking into. These toads were indeed special but not 'a freak of nature' as Moriarty had put it.

Then there had been a bizarre mention of tongues –although the compound from the toads was extracted from their glands and not from their tongues, perhaps the hint was to draw his attention towards the toad's glandular excretion or certainly the excretion of amphibian hallucinogens.

He shivered at the recall, full of discomfort. Was he simply trying to tie off loose ends in his mind? Was he trying to find connections when there were none? He just couldn't objectify, he was too close to this and his sample was too small to be able to conclude anything further about why this particular compound would have been found on Malcolmson.

How could an engineered compound partially found in the glands of American toads, end up on the skin behind Malcolmson's ear? For what purpose? If the compound was being used for a chemical high, then it was normally taken orally or smoked and caused immediate psychoactive effects, hallucinations and euphoria – none of which Malcolmson had appeared to be exhibiting during his pursuit of him on the day he perished. The question remained whether someone using this drug would even be capable of running in the manner Malcolmson had. People often experienced severe nausea, heart palpitations and toxic repercussions.

Still, he had to remember that there was something else spliced with the 5-MeO-DMT and even Dr Wightman hadn't been able to draw any conclusion, so it wasn't out-with the realm of possibility that Malcolmson may have been able to experience some of the effects but not those which were physically debilitating. Malcolmson had been a former athlete and clearly showed evidence of performance enhancing drugs within his muscle tissues. So drugs to enhance his abilities wouldn't have been unusual for him. What beneficial abilities did 5-MeO-DMT have though? The only benefit he could think of was the ability to have controlled hallucinations. The toads had been used by Native Americans to induce out of body experiences to commune with spirits as part of Shamanic practises.

He blinked hard as he thought on that. Malcolmson hadn't seemed like the spiritual type. The idea of using a drug in this manner wasn't so unlike his own use of cocaine in his seven percent solution to help him think outside of the box and enhance the reality of his mind palace.

Malcolmson hadn't been the intellectual type.

His gut brought him back to the matter of Moriarty. The Moriarty in his mind palace couldn't have just pulled these hints out of thin air. Everything in his mind palace had been put there by himself and he had not known a lot of this information before today. He had had to seek out a few experts and spent the day researching this information. He hadn't put it into his mind palace for his Moriarty to pull forward and that could only mean one thing…

He sat up and scanned the room, every surface that his dream version of Moriarty had touched. It couldn't be real. He couldn't be real could he? For months he'd been sure that Moriarty had left his influence via media and via a small network of his followers whom had been unknown to Sherlock. He'd never actually believed he was dealing with this game via a very _alive_ Moriarty. He had blown through the back of his skull. He couldn't have faked that, not with Sherlock so close and able to examine him. Still, adrenaline and fear had been running so high in him that day that he may have missed something.

He exhaled slowly. There were facts and there were assumptions.

Facts –

a) The compound found on Malcolmson was synthetic with properties of the Incilius alvarius toad's glandular excretions, plus something else unknown,

b) Malcolmson had not suffered the usual side effects of the 5-MeO-DMT,

c) Malcolmson was dead and had been killed by a broken neck by suspects unknown rather than as part of his fall – confirmed by Molly,

d) Malcolmson had believed he was in communication and working with Moriarty – evidenced by material on his home laptop and email communications between he and someone posing as Moriarty or Moriarty himself. Sloppy work for Moriarty, which meant that it had been intentional to leave this evidence to get Sherlock interested and following in pursuit,

e) Moriarty had shot himself through to the back of his skull! Sherlock had watched it happen. He couldn't be alive,

f) Someone was trying to attract Sherlock's attention and draw him back towards Moriarty's game,

Assumptions –

a) Moriarty was alive, had somehow survived his bullet wound and was now drugging him into a state where he was able to enter this flat and speak to him without Sherlock realising that he was anything other than a cocaine hallucination or part of a dream. Moriarty's hinting suggested this was a reality as he had supplied information that didn't exist in Sherlock's mind beforehand and therefore had had to come from an external force,

b) Malcolmson had been planted by Moriarty or someone trying to continue the work Moriarty had left behind after his death – reason and motive unknown. He needed more data,

c) Malcolmson had been using the compound or had it intentionally placed on the skin behind his ear for Sherlock to find – his dangling carrot,

d) Someone was responsible for the cultivation of the compound and it wasn't anyone working above board,

e) The compound could be part of a new chemical warfare – large assumption needing more investigation,

f) The size of the scarring to his neck indicated no mere domestic dog frequently held by common drug dealers, whom Scotland Yard suspected had been doing business in the alleyway at the time of Sherlock encroachment. Whomever the suspects were, they were not the common herd trading on the London streets. Black market? Secret Ops? Had Malcolmson been their intended trade - the compound present on his skin having been placed there unknown to him? Perhaps Malcolmson had bitten off more than he could chew, deluded that he was anything other than an pawn. Perhaps Malcolmson was unaware of the presence of the compound on his skin, but his life had always been the exchange and he had been deceived. If that was the case though – why leave his body behind if it was so valuable?

He needed more data, more answers to unravel this and he was at a dead end with his evidence.


End file.
